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Incognolio? It is not a thing. Or it is a thing, originless, that inspired the author, Michael Sussman (whoever that is?). Incognolio is a comic and psychological novel invented by Sussman’s multiple protagonists, or composed half by you, dear reader, if the author has his way. Following no formal dramatic structure, Incognolio, at its least perplexing, is a search for meaning, with meaning having deputized a variety of representatives passing with the nomenclature Incognolio.Incognolio

At occasions in the novel incognolio is: a covert CIA investigation into people losing the ability to think rationally, a terrycloth headband allowing its wearer to rid themself of the myth of free will, the koan of an austerity cult, the quest of a technologically-advanced alien race who lack spiritual fulfillment, the titles of several novels within the novel being written by feuding authors, a psychedelic drug, a password, a lock combination, a cryptophasic language between twins, and the voice of an all-embracing maternal deity. The point being, incognolio not only resides in the realm of imagination, but also is imagination itself.

A review of a more orthodox novel would attempt to summarize the plot. Your obedient reviewer is not certain of the value of that approach. Incognolio starts humorous and metafictive enough with a protagonist writing a novel titled Incognolio. The protagonist struggles with several dead end crime subplots depicted simultaneously as narrative action in which he is engaged and subject matter he is composing in real time. The subplots, frequently hilarious, occasionally violent or morally problematic, are abandoned. Control of the novel is transferred among the protagonist’s villainous ghostwriter, his living or dead twin sister, an uncle from another dimension, the devil, God, and finally, after the protagonist is killed, to the character of a troubled writer named Sussman. Are you still with me? It is at this point Sussman’s stream of conscious writing begins to reach its true destination.

Dimension jumping and incognolio monikered MacGuffins are sufficiently intriguing until we arrive at a denouement stripped of false-start narrators and red herrings. When the author walks us out on a high, windy bridge to describe the forthcoming suicide of Sussman things get real. The reader discovers that all the narrators and abandoned subplots have been a series of screens intended to obscure the dysphoria of a persona – Author? Protagonist? We can’t say. – who is crippled by grief, failure, mental illness, rejection, and existential anomie. Like the book editor character brought in to fix the novel tells Sussman, “Despite its playfulness, your story’s a tragedy.” (Emphasis added.) Perhaps rowing merrily down the stream of conscious, searching for the meaning of a meaningless word, and peering into as many holes as it takes to fill the Albert Hall took the author to a much different creative plane then the one in which he began. Incognolio is a plotless novel, but it has a compelling emotional arc, and the ending transcends the middle.

The last scenes also happen to display the author’s most effective prose. The book editor critiques, “The author seeks union with himself. To achieve this integration, to cross that threshold into the dark and uncharted recesses of his subconscious, the Author would need to be willing to embrace his monsters, including the source of his self-loathing…The tragedy is that he can’t face his monsters, can’t find a strategy for confronting the things he’s most afraid of. Unable to successfully complete the novel, he self-destructs.” So, Incognolio, after many failed tests, is a laboratory inquiry into the emotional tension of the creative process.

The theoretician Andre Breton defined surrealism as, “Psychic automatism in its pure state, by which one proposes to express the actual functioning of thought…in the absence of any control exercised by reason exempt from any aesthetic or moral concern.” Incognolio is both hard to read and hard not to read, because Sussman provides the amusing lies of his surreal dreamworld at a breathless pace, until the reader is exposed to a truth. The truth being that this dream has, in its way, been a controlled nightmare.

 

 

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ARRWhen Speth, 15 year old protagonist, chooses a vow of silence over becoming another mouthpiece for her assigned “brands”, she starts receiving “defriend” notifications from the advertisers on her mandatory wrist wearable. This is the outside-in American future of All Rights Reserved, domed cities where individual words of the common people are billable goods for the affluent, and corporations. All forms of expression, including gestures, hugs, even hairstyles are trademarked, copywritten, and commoditized in a vast hyper-corporate, hyper-litigious electronic architecture. And like all science fiction, author Gregory Katsoulis’ novel is as much a reflection of our present as an imagination of the future.

In a creatively described, Huxley-esque metropolis, smart billboards line streets and bridges to scan passersby and subject them to individually targeted ads. Speth’s family keeps their rent affordable by watching a thirty-hour per month quota of ads on a wall screen that adjusts the volume up if it senses they’re not paying attention. The exaggerations aren’t that far off from today’s real advertising-creep.

In our late capitalist society we participate in aggressive and passive promotion of private enterprise all-day every-day. Watch a movie trailer on the internet and you’re, apparently, willing to abide a thirty second advertisement you didn’t anticipate glued to the front end of the advertisement you did ask to watch. You probably also pay $$$ per month for the privilege of cable television channels re-selling your viewership in the form of commercials. You can’t avoid these syndicate traps, even if you want to. Recently I was in an airport men’s room where my pee flowing into a once complimentary trough irradiated a hidden decal for X brand of beer (the ad disappeared in the flush like a urinary Snapchat™). As consumers, we make many compromises to our privacy because of either what we perceive as the intrinsic value received, or the disturbing reality that we have no choice anyway.

In All Rights Reserved, product placement and corporate profit are layered into every strata under the suffocating dome. Ads constantly intrude into private life, and every conversation generates a receipt-for-purchase on one’s government imposed wrist monitor. Even the utterance of a brand name is subject to remunerative rights collection.

Speth’s city feels a lot like the post-apocalyptic urban outposts of familiar YA series like Divergent, The Giver, and The Host. What sets All Rights Reserved apart is the author’s underlying comment regarding a future both hysterically bleak and alarmingly relevant, where leering Dickensian villains hover over children threatening them with lawsuits and lifetimes of financial servitude. The glimmer of hope is that Speth – frustrated by the suicide of her desperate friend and the detention of her indebted parents – determines to become the first in her society to fearlessly keep her mouth shut. Her silent protest agitates the adult authorities confounded by her insolence, and she inspires a wave of zip-lipped revolt among her teen peers, referred to as The Silents. Katsoulis immerses his reader in this intriguing, coercive culture, which his protagonist – against self-preservation, societal scorn, and murdering thugs – seeks to tear down with only her wits for her weapon.

Equally successful is Katsoulis, a first time novelist, demonstrating a skillful author’s ability to keep increasing danger and doubt in Speth’s mission to rescue her family and perhaps her entire country. Unfortunately, this previous effective stakes-raising leads to the catastrophic, and rather glibly dramatized, death of a major character as the novel rounds into a disappointing third act. As much as I enjoyed the book’s sardonic humor, disheartening absurdity, and sometimes hammy characters, the third act devolves into less original genre action, complete with gunfights, car chases, and a master-villain hackneyed enough to make Snidely Whiplash seem complex. Also, by the end, Katsoulis simply disappears several characters in peril – perhaps in reservation for a sequel, but it felt to me like a lot of loose ends in an otherwise well thought book.

Don’t take my explication of these weaknesses for holding back a recommendation. On the whole, All Rights Reserved is a potent success of imagination, humor, compelling characters and, especially, commentary on the vulnerability of free speech and privacy. I could utter more praise, but as I sit writing in a national brand coffee shop, my handheld device keeps notifying me to drop everything and write an uncompensated review that will boost their coffee’s commercial profile. I guess we’re already there, Speth.

 

 

brundage3Consider All Things Cease To Appear a work of literary merit that happens to begin with a murder suspect ruminating on Emerson and an ax in the skull of the protagonist. In other words, author Elizabeth Brundage eludes the general classification of a novel into Genre Fiction or Literary Fiction.

Genre Fiction usually gets divided into romance, horror, mystery, et cetera and then subdivided into cross genres and further complicated taxa. Literary Fiction is both difficult and easy to classify because it resides in the category of books with no category. Literary Fiction is for sale in the section of your book store where the fog never lifts, its shelve hanging unfastened between the land and sky. Is All Things Cease To Appear a mystery/thriller, a romantic/horror, or a literary fictive with genre elements? Here, context serves as an inside-out metaphor for the content, the imaginary hinterland Brundage creates.

The setting is Chosen, New York, an insular working-class town. George and Catherine Clare, intellectuals from the city, have moved to a house on a foreclosed dairy farm, also the site of the previous family’s tragic self-destruction. While George attends his new position as professor of art history at a nearby college, Catherine forgoes her career in art restoration to become restorian of the spooky, decaying property. She hires the teenage Hale brothers, a sad but bighearted trio, to repaint the exteriors, although she is unaware the house was last the Hale’s home until they were orphaned by their father’s violence and mother’s murder?/suicide.

George Clare teaches study in the Hudson River School of landscape painters, specifically George Innes, whose nineteenth century works were intended to be both observably captivating and spiritually experiential. Meanwhile Catherine Clare is experiencing her own metaphysical shift. She relies on the Hale boys and other new local friendships to navigate passage through her collapsing marriage and creeping ennui. George turns out to be a character perpetrating frauds, betrayals, and violent acts with sociopathic artifice, which culminates in his becoming the prime suspect in Catherine’s gruesome murder.

In its breadth, All Things tells the concentric history of two abused mothers who meet similar tragic fate in the same house at different times. Like any good novel, the story is rich in comparative elements, but referring to Brundage’s elements as ordinary pairings and opposites seems inadequate. Counterpoint might be a closer descriptive (Catherine plays Chopin on piano!), in the sense of independent melodies composed into one harmonic texture: Catherine is the abused mistress of the house, but the ghost of her lost predecessor, Ella Hale, continues to traverse the creaky stairs; the Hale boys still consider the house their property, and yet they are dispossessed from it; the Clares and the Hales are two families at different times appearing, concentrating, and disappearing.

These contrapuntals reflect the novel’s central philosophical platform: reality is a place where morals and meaning are uncertain concepts; time is an ebbing and disappearing focal point; life is a composition of light and darkness- like an Innes landscape that balances land and sky into a vague frontier where all things blend until ceasing to appear. Brundage performs context and content in counterpoint as genre motifs are blended with literary themes and superb prose. In this scene Eddy Hale, working outside Catherine’s house, is both a de facto permanent occupant and a frequent voyeur looking in from the outside:

“Maybe she’d come out to hang the wash. He’d watch her back, her arms reaching up, her elbows as knobby as a garden snail’s. Across the fields that had been his grandfather’s and his great grandfather’s before that, the wind spoke to him. Wait, it said… Now Catherine’s daughter was sleeping in his old room. He wouldn’t tell her. He wouldn’t tell her what had gone on in that house, how his father would come after them, turning over chairs and tables, how his mother would cry up in her room or sometimes sit in one place shaking just a little, like somebody who was scared.”

 

I suppose genre readers could find themselves disappointed to be led into a four hundred page murder mystery that neither provides a competent detective nor concludes with certainty about who is guilty. It is a risk for Brundage to write a beautiful novel wherein beauty and love depend on the unseen, and the success of heroes and demise of villains depends entirely on implication. As Brundage writes- in fog certain things, certain colors become important. Like Innes’s intention that observers of his paintings would have their souls see what their eyes could not, Brundage shows readers that the division of genre and literary fiction, like lateral time and universal logic, is mere optical illusion.

Mystery genre is often the product of formula. webRhianna_Davies_final_hi_res_coverThe motivations of suspects are presented first and then the sleuth’s [reader’s] job is to piece together which motivation found a plot. Most mystery characters are a virtual police lineup of hyper-motivated and obvious schemers. What’s intriguing, and refreshing, about Karen Vorbeck Williams“THE HOUSE ON SEVENTH STREET” is it’s mixture of subtleties. The novel focuses on a protagonist who is rather ordinary and only ever in the proximity of danger. Or is she?

Winna is a middle-aged divorcee returning home to Colorado to clean out her family manor. In doing so she dusts off family secrets about adultery, hidden jewelry, and suspicious deaths. The deeper Winna digs into old trunks, the more it’s apparent that someone, someone inside her small circle of family and friends, may be trying, subtlety, to kill her. But why?

Williams’ story uncannily makes us feel connected to Winna. Like Winna, we are baffled as to how seemingly trustworthy characters could possibly be suspects, could be killers. It’s true everyone’s behavior toward Winna is slightly selfish or odd. The author inserts clues mostly in the authentic dialogue, hinting at underlying greed or resentment that any of us might be guilty of amongst our closest relations. It’s unnerving because we, as Winna, like the suspects and want to trust them. This is an ingenious strategy for crafting suspense. Who does-she/do-we trust?

One complaint with “THE HOUSE ON SEVENTH STREET” is the ending, which, for me, was a sort of a flat tire. The revelation of the culprit within Winna’s midst comes without any confrontation. There are also some secondary mysteries going on which are either red-herrings, or dropped when the book ends abruptly at what feels like an enforced three hundred pages. However, I don’t want to spoil the mystery or the experience. I think reading the novel is worth the reader’s time, even if the end is too bad. Williams is gifted in her atmospheric descriptions, drawing characters who feel authentic, and cooking suspense on a gradual roast.

Do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that is taking place among you to test you, as though some strange thing happened to you. – 1 Peter 4:12

Norma Zimmer was a gifted soprano who performed for decades on television’s ‘LAWRENCE WELK SHOW.’ Welk even gave Zimmer the title of Champagne Lady, the highest honor among other fine women vocalists on the show. Zimmer accepted that appellation graciously in her autobiography,norma although with reservations about sounding like she would be promoting liquor.

She was raised by alcoholic parents in poverty in the Pacific Northwest. Her parents were emotionally abusive, they smoked cigarettes, and they did not yet know God. But Norma grew up to confess Christ on her own. Throughout her story she draws Christian lessons from a life of “tests” and “fiery ordeals.” Her gifted singing, confident will, and the generosity of early supporters enabled Norma to make a great career of radio/recordings, television, and Christian revival concerts. She describes her adult life with financial comforts, devoted family, and spiritual bliss. Yet through bad luck (or influence of her book editor), tests of her and family’s allegiance to God never abate: toxemic pregnancy, auto accident, crooked car salesman, crooked agent, twisted intestines, psoriasis, debilitating arthritis, broken back, brain shunt, family strokes, sister dies of liver disease, father dead in a car two days, family dog burns the house down, near death penicillin reaction, near death choking on beef Stroganoff, stranded on treacherous river rapids, water skiing accident, downhill skiing accident:

“…’one of the [ski-lift] workers climbed up on the tower to repair it and he called for a peen hammer. They threw one up to him but he missed it and it fell and hit your husband.’ I was crying, and praying, O God, help us! Please protect him, Lord!”

A prayer too late, if you ask me. I imagine if Job read Norma’s autobiography he would say, “Wow, this dame can’t catch a break.”

Still, what also never abates is Norma’s optimism about life, people’s good nature, and her faith in God’s long game. Some readers may discover her buoyant attitude and ornamented writing style ironic, others inspirational. If you are a fan of the ‘LAWRENCE WELK SHOW’, like I am, you already have a sensibility for what is over-decorated but enjoyable. If you take your Lawrence Welk more serious, you might also find Zimmer’s book metaphysically uplifting.

Lawrence Welk

Lawrence Welk

However, if you pray to read more detail about what it was really like working under Welk’s baton for twenty years, God’s answer will be No. There is not much behind the scenes here, except some descriptions of how busy Norma was on days driving between the studio and hospitals, and lists acknowledging all the backstage angels who kept Norma looking grand. I hoped for behind the curtain conflict among the performers, rather than hearing more about Norma’s redoubtable faith in Jesus, no matter what terrible shit life threw at her. I wanted to read more shit about Lawrence the hot-headed puritan, or the over-the-hill band member schtuping a teenage Lennon sister, or the on-camera star who had an off-screen champagne problem.

I admit that despite my being atheist, I did find Norma’s take on life encouraging. She was a person who absolutely believed that smiling into the video camera communicated a hopeful message to viewers. At another scene in the book she describes laying awake with her her croup-afflicted toddler Ronnie, worrying if she should take him to the hospital for a tracheotomy:

“He was barely able to breathe… I lay beside Ronnie, watching and praying. ‘God,’ I prayed over and over, ‘please heal our little son.’ Suddenly I noticed a brightness behind me… Standing near the bed was a lovely blonde woman with a white blouse and dark skirt… She just stood there with a radiant smile on her face, looking down at Ron. Then she just faded away. It was a glorious experience. I felt no fear – just awe. I have always believed that I was permitted to see Ron’s guardian angel.”

A blonde in a blouse and skirt? Who was her son’s guardian angel, Donna Reed?

Off screen Norma Zimmer sounds like she was a bit of a kook, but I’m also convinced, beyond a doubt, that she was a wunnerful, wunnerful lady.

ontennis2To appreciate my commentary regarding ‘ON TENNIS: FIVE ESSAYS ‘by David Foster Wallace, you are going to need know two things about DFW and then two about me. Wallace was a regionally ranked junior tennis athlete whose budding potential fizzled among the competition of a broader geographic draw. Fortunately he fell back on being a brilliant writer of long and lauded novels, and many ironic essays on popular culture, including these pieces about tennis. About me, I play tennis almost everyday, despite being a terrible, talentless athlete, and I’m a sometimes silly, but never ironic, fan of the professional game. Second, I write this commentary a week after attending this year’s Cincinnati Open hardcourt tournament, while also preparing to do nothing else for the next fortnight except watch the U.S. Tennis Open in New York City on television.

This summer when I mentioned my Cincinnati excursion to friends mostly the reaction was the what-where? Upon my establishing that the Cincinnati Open is among the premiere annual events in the international tennis season, the inevitable next question was who’s playing? “Everybody!” I invariably said, and began to tick down a list of the some of the greatest current athletes in the world. “Federer, Nadal, Djokovic, Serena, …” Are you losing interest yet reader? Because when I went any further down that list of current greatest athletes my interlocutor typically started to lose interest too.

This brings me back to ‘ON TENNIS’ and the connecting tissue of DFW’s five essays. He writes about his inexplicable attraction to mediocre-written sports biographies, the mercurial tennis career of Tracy Austin (“How Tracy Austin Broke My Heart”), and the shameless commerciality of the US Open (“Democracy and Commerce at the U.S. Open”). Most conspicuously, DFW devotes an entire piece to his near-religious experience seeing Roger Federer win Wimbledon in 2005 (“Federer Both Flesh And Not”). David Foster Wallace has been dead eight years, but Roger Federer is still among the top three men’s tennis players in the universe (2015 Cincinnati Open Champion!). Everybody knows FED right? My standard of differentiation between athlete and super-athlete is if my seventy-six year old mother has heard of ’em. Jordan? Navratilova? Manning(s)? If Mom knows vaguely what sport they play they have transcended ordinary athletic fame, as far as I can measure. DFW’s obsession with tennis athletes was a common theme as he depicted them in his essays alternately as either under-appreciated Gods or extraordinary humans possessing cartoon superhero-like powers.

The essay that resonated with me personally was DFW’s documentation of shadowing a then, yet to fizzle, young player named Michael Joyce through qualifying matches at the Canadian Open in 1995 (“Tennis Player Michael Joyce’s Professional Artistry as a Paradigm of Certain Stuff About Choice, Freedom, Limitation, Joy, Grotesquerie, and Human Completeness”). Wallace described himself sitting in a stadium court with the capacity for ten-thousand and counting ninety-three people present, most appearing to be family and friends of Joyce’s opponent, a Canadian college star. Watching Joyce practice and play, DFW reflects on the lonely, mostly unmedia-covered reality of the unknown professional tennis player, and their subsumption of all other benefits of human living to achieve enigmatic victory in one heroic pursuit. As DFW invites us, “try to imagine what it would be like to be among the hundred best in the world at something. At anything.” Even the most dedicated tennis fan probably cannot ever appreciate the amount of personal sacrifice their favorite player has made, and how the athlete consents to commit the healthiest years of their life seeking success in a competition that is seriously small compared to sports with broader appeal.

My husband and I take our vacations, traveling thousands of miles to dreamlands like Cincinnati and other cities hosting less esteemed professional tennis tournaments than the U.S. Open. One reason is we get to see great tennis live and experience the game at a higher level of enjoyment. Also, because we both have our favorite players and smaller tournaments give us close access to our version of celebrities.

On one of the days I was wondering around Lindler Family Tennis Center, annual site of the Cincinnati Open, I accidentally found two of my personal favorite men’s players in practice. Full disclosure, I happen to be gay and it is no accident most of the players who’s careers I follow close also happen to be gifted with extreme physical attractiveness. I will not bother to mention the names of these two European men, only tennis fans have heard of them, but, as of this posting, those two are ranked the eighty-sixth and the eighteenth most talented men’s tennis athletes in the world. Even my exotic number eighteen is an unknown name to most sports fans in the U.S, but he was right there practicing on a tiny, vacant court in Cincinnati, and I was agog. There was no fence between me my tennis idols. They were dressed in practice t’s and witz-cracking with each other in German, completely abstracted to the mortal nearness of me. The only other spectators around were two kids standing by the changeover chairs with jumbo, nine-inch tennis autograph balls and marking pens waning dry in the Ohio sun.

Kids can be really dumb. When I was about seven my father took me to an obscure, outdoor vaudeville revival show at a family campground. I remember pestering the no-name regional actors at the beer keg after their big show for their autographs on paper napkins. For all I know, the campground’s summer-stock might have been volunteer performers. I guess anyone could be made into a hero by seven year old me, if they were doing anything that made people sit and watch for over fifteen minutes. Similarly, I doubt the kids waiting around the Cincinnati practice court even knew the names of the two handsome Euro pros. Collection of an autograph was more vital to those two kids than the once in a lifetime opportunity to interact with the autographer. Top one hundred players, sure, but to a kid the player was just someone their parents dragged them out there to appreciate. My enthusiasm set apart, those two amazing athletes are not famous on the other side of the mesh-windscreened privacy fences of Lindler Family Tennis Center. It is the live tournament atmosphere that makes it feel like a rare and lucky occasion to a pathetic fan like me.

A 2015 Harris poll, that ranks the most popular sports among U.S. adults, determined that pro-football is number one. The next sports ranked, in descending order, were pro-baseball, college football, then auto racing. Women’s tennis came in twelfth most popular, followed by Not Sure. Men’s tennis was in the cellar with the remaining sports anyone can think of, like Horseshoe Pitch, Lumberjacking, and the WNBA.

So, it is not unusual to find oneself at the Cincinnati Open sitting in a coveted low row right at the net during exciting matches that are under-attended or booked disproportionately in giant empty spaces. One of the matches I sought out in Cincinnati started at 3 p.m. on Tuesday in a four-thousand seat stadium court attended by, at best, about three dozen people. We went to watch thirty-two year old and ninety-forth ranked Yen-Hsun Lu (Taiwanese, pronounced loo yen-soon) against our boy, a handsome twenty-four year old, fifteenth ranked player named David Goffin (Belgian, pronounced girl-friend). Goffin’s high rank and angelic beauty set apart, I suspected that many of the people who come out to Lindler Family Tennis on first round

David Goffin

David Goffin

days were probably Cincy-metro locals who dropped by with freebie tickets given away on WKRP. Not me. I bought tickets in advance and drove thirteen hours because I love the early rounds of these tournaments. I study the game of my favorite players up close and steal professional-pointers for my own amateur follies. As DFW wrote, “Television doesn’t really allow us to appreciate what real top-level players can do, how hard they’re actually hitting the ball, and with what control and tactical imagination and artistry.” All true, but, full disclosure, a big part of me is seriously interested in seeing David Belgian Girlfriend in the flesh because he is so fucking cute!

Although I was there among hundreds of empty chairs to watch Goffin, I would never make a show of it. Tennis is, above all, a game of expected decorum on behalf of both players and spectators. Such expectations had not been made clear at the gate to a father/son pair a few rows in front of me. I do not want to sound elitist, so try to understand if I describe them as neither dressed nor carrying themselves with the reserve one might anticipate at a world-class tennis event. Nothing prevented them from having their version of a good time. They banged their fists on the backs of chairs sending the sound of metallic vibrations down the aisle. And they hooted like transfers from a brawling hockey match, “Loo! Loo! Loo!” and “Fuck ’em up, Rendy!”

It turns out “Rendy” is the nickname recited loud in public venues among devoted fans of Yen-Hsun Lu, the also pretty cute rival that day of David Goffin. I was able to eavesdrop together that the father/son party had driven seven hundred miles from Minneapolis, even though they had no other personal connection to Rendy Lu at all. They were “just fans.” The idea was weird to me that those two would don their fishing

Yen-Hsun

Yen-Hsun “Rendy” Lu

caps, get in the family pickup, and follow the tennis career of a thirty-two year old, ninety fourth ranked Taiwanese player around the country. But who am I to judge? Were my reasons for being there so much more relatable? I have to say the father/son co-fans of “Loo!” were inspiring. They liked tennis for tennis sake, and wanted thousands of empty chairs to know about it. Is that not what I want for tennis, for other people to like it too?

I posted pictures on Instagram of every living, serving tennis star I saw, and checked-in on Facebook from every court in Cincinnati, but my effort last week did not make tennis a more popular sport. Professional Tennis is terrible at promoting itself, and yet the economy of sponsorship and prize money is enormous. Total prize money for the Cincinnati open is over five million dollars; U.S. Open thirty-nine million. Maybe that is not as enormous as the economy of the NFL, but then, on a curve, the level of athleticism involved would register just as astronomically far beyond my grasp. Whether other people ever get into tennis is neither something I can effect nor something that makes a difference. All I really care is that the game is there for fans and that my favorite players succeed. Tennis is not meaningful, but it is the stuff that makes life endurable. Fame is a state of the fan’s mind.

tennisThis Sports Illustrated book on tennis from 1958 has some invaluable tips for you gals allowed to play mixed-doubles with the man. The list is complicated, so I’ll employ some of my masculine leadership and type for you distaff players only what I judge to be the most important advice:

1. Let your partner serve first. It will make him feel that victory depends on him.

4. Wear the most becoming outfit you can find in your wardrobe, but don’t try to be too spectacular looking. The too intriguing costume can be as disconcerting to your partner as your opponent.

6. Compliment your partner generously but uneffusively when he makes a good shot. His ego is the key to his performance.

7. Don’t chat with the other players or bystanders.

8. Play the net uncomplainingly if your partner asks you to. He may have a reason.

9. Always play your best; men prefer to win.

Now, go have fun ladies. I insist.